Dearest Italy,
on the 1st of November
i met him in Verona
and so begins my story
Ours
Sincerely,
Yours

music is the soul's revival,
a universal method
to suite one's emotions.
like a poet, an artist or musician,
releases their inner self, personal thoughts and feel
into a piece for others to relate to.
it is the music that can be felt more than touch.
it is the music we can hear from all over the world, but you see
hearing it is one thing while
feeling it is another.

if you take one step back…. .
You’re farther away from moving forward
to make the most of the time ahead of you
Because there’s no going back in time
to change choices or erase them
Because Memories would lose their meaning
And you grow through what you go through
To feel deeply and to learn intently
About the little moments that create the beautiful soul within yourself

and if you take two steps forward. ..
You can only learn more about what you’ve only dreamed of discovering
and there may be someone waiting there
To pull you farther into the future
Who holds your hand during hard times
And cries with you for the happy moments- the sad ones too.
Because it is better to feel everything than to never take the chance of feeling anything at all.

I paint the walls in shades of green like leaves of grass. It grows and I talk about my days in paragraphs. How long can they survive in cold winter nights? To be frozen over is a risk I couldn't bare to take alone. How long can i stay awake to tear pages into pieces? They, like little leaves of grass, are frozen over. I look to the wall and see past pictures taped to what once was blue. Books marked by middle pages marked by red roses and letters never folded evenly into envelopes. The beginning is a reflection of the end, and one can not exist without the other. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of the lock without the knowing of its key?

the stars are projectors and we are merely figures
floating through sounds sent to us
by movie makers
dancing through space and time

the stage is set in space

we film now farthest from the sun and we wait
it's quieter here.
to dance without music is to pretend
to make believe
it has been quite some time since i'd last heard my favorite song
i am unsettled
as i should be in the role of the vagabond.
so i start to sing
and they tell me to continue on and the stars shine brighter.
blinding.
i see nothing. stunned.
i close my eyes
tears flooded with memories of a place where greens and blues
make me want to see
the world,

my world
i look to you
and i see it. i can hear it.

the music echoes throughout the system solar
vibrations sent through constellations
and the stars begin to shoot
the final scene

the beginning.

darkness.

he played the same song
of love
running around in my dreams
all throughout my mind
the chords echoed in my head
touching the strings of my heart
oh so beautifully
he played
falling in love with him
like falling in love with the music

when solving for x:

the answer is absent in the question
therefore...
the process becomes a complication
do not fear the complication...
for x is the factor
of life
the unknown...
substance of the questions
that trigger the brain
a mental illusion of matter
of what matters
of what must matter to answer the mark of mystery
if x can not be found
do not disregard the possibility
for what is lost shall be found once again
completeness
in defining the solution
the circle
in perfect circumference
unlike the others
for what goes around does come around
to meet
at one point  
pure significance
without any points at all
for edges do not exist
yet the points are clearly stated
3 specific
for the angles represent a connection
of truth
so complicated in occasion
like that of the alchemist
the fire the air the water and the earth
transform geometry into geography
views
from another angle
look beyond the numbers

now solve for x:

the fear of knowing
can be disguised as
a mystery
unsolved,
untouched,
as doubt infests our immediate reactions
it is i do believe
inevitable-
wonder
consumes the mind,
a wonder of its own

she walks on water

the clock spins counterclockwise

blind-and now she sees

his heart
wasn't like the others
it didn't just beat in sync with anyone
because he had never truly been in love,

and so the many maidens, so beautiful, believed to convince him
of their love
for the boy
and for his heart

until the night came for each of them
so beautiful, the maidens
and so he sat and spoke
"do look into my heart, and tell me what you see, for I am unsure of what fate my feelings confess"
So each of the girls had looked into his heart.

The first had looked upon the surface, for her love was weak
and all she saw was the face of the boy
walking hand in hand with another whose face was shaded
hidden and unable to discover.
"I see nothing" she said,
and with this the boy knew his heart did not beat for her.

The next did look deep into the heart,
for her passion for the the boy did exist
and she had only hoped for the relief of his love for her
so deep into his heart she cast her eyes
only to find him holding in his arms
someone other than herself
the portrait blurry
and so she knew now that this love she must let go
a fiction
because she does not have the heart for which he craves

the rest of them had looked even deeper, and all saw similar images
of the boy and the mystery of persona. Of a girl.

And so the boy felt discouraged. His heart grew tired of the analysis, and the abundance of hope had diminished to mere existence. Despair had begun to cry upon his shoulder, and so he turned to the one who never failed him. He believed that she, in fact, could help him and his heart.

This one.
She had seen his heartbreak over and over, for the times he forced himself to fall in love with the past, this one would watch him fall to fall with him herself. She cared for him like no one else, and he was ever grateful for someone like this. She promised to assist him in searching for the mystery, and so after seeing how close to giving up the boy was, she thought about looking into his heart for herself. There must be something the others may have missed.
"Please look" he said, "Tell me who it is my very heart does let me live for. You must tell me of the girl I do love. Her face I must know."

And so the girl's eyes made contact with the core of his heart
his soul desire
and at the initial glimpse she saw

nothing like the others...
not the boy, nor the shadowed figure of another girl

but a face
in clear description

she looked into the heart of the boy whom she had loved forever
into the mirror of fate
the reason his heart now beat in sync
with hers
at that very moment
of fate's own reflection

the boy felt his heart beat in perfect rhythm
of love

yeah right.

he tells her,
take a backroad
and
go left, faster, let us gain momentum.
narrow and discrete
where the wind blows
wind you can't see
but she can see the future.
she can not grasp it though, aside from the feeling she drives.
driving through the future with her eyes closed.
through the lyrics she can hear the song
over         and over    again.
under water,
rushing ,
like blood into the brain:
an overflow of thoughts
breaks the windows-
glass, which
mirrors past and present.
will she drown?
will the music still play?

yeah right.

the radio breaks
and catches fire

yeah right.
there's no flame to find underwater

memory disguises a moment in time
that only the wind shall remember.

The foot prints with color.
Stamps across the streets where
cars create a sense of second pace,
passing by the signs now faded green
reads not Route 44
but rather Route 4..something..
Will they ever repaint it green?
What's the point? You wonder
when you're late for work and you may barely
make it, because your gas tank is on E yet again.
What else is new?

New job. New wife. No kids.
Because, can you really afford it?
Price tags are merely fiction
and I know this because of what happened once in second grade.
The library was my favorite place.
It's one of the only places that one is never alone.
I was the only one in class to mix up fiction and non fiction on the test.

And still, I am confused.
For I walk this world with carbon footprints
tears like rain drops-acid even,
and not the kind that spin inner thoughts with color.
Instead, the kind that is not kind at all, but
hurtful-scars the surface of green grass
left to fade like an old photograph.
And the colors fade like roadsigns
that the cities overlook.

Lights can be blinding.
No flash photography in the museum please.
I'm living nonfiction.

not to be confused with maraschino
cherries

reminds them of the pretty girl with the blond hair
who can tie that silly little stem into a
silly little knot
in attempt to catch the quarterback's attention
the one who failed to decipher
a quarter
and a dime
until he turned age ten
and that she was- a 10
rated on their silly little scale
weighing nothing but all the options

this makes the pretty girl irate
because she can do far more than tricks like that one
she won her fifth pageant just last week!
she sings- not just for fun and she's even going to college
to wear fancy navy blue suits with golden buttons
and cherry red lipstick
because she knows she can kiss far better
than the rest of 'em
silly little boys stained with dirt and wet grass
she'll know exactly when it comes time to rain
the moment she reports as the next weather woman
aired on channel 6

they'll watch her as they sip
slowly but surely on their wisers waiting
for commercials to cease
to see if she comes back around
in time for Sunday's game and the local diner
with the neon sign that can't be missed

but the sign is gone
she took it with her-dragged it down to break through
the pavement that gets too hot to touch in the heat of the
summertime

she's sure they'll miss it- the memories

and all they'll remember when they see pretty girls
with blond hair

is her perfume by moschino
and the cherry on top

I never thought  
I could love You
More than I love
The stars
The sound of the ocean
Conversing deep within the soul of the world
I found it to be true
The stars shining brighter than ever before
Like they wanted us to see them
And wonder,
"What if"
Along the bay
Rocks walked all over
By adventurers
The realists

And You held the flashlight
So I followed You
Into the dark
Timeless
You asked me to write about us
How I fell in love with You
How I fell in love with the moment

And here it is

Misspelled and mispronounced
They (like i) have always wondered
Why?
A “K” and not a “C”
You see,
I have yet to meet a name; a person
Like mine; like me.

“Miss Karleigh”
Written on the envelopes,
The many Birthday cards sent,
I will save forever.
“Dear Karleigh,”
Addressed to me
From my teachers
Who have encouraged me to value
My perspective. My creativity. My self
less ways of living day to day.
To take notes of little things-
Like birthdays.
Of different people
Who see the difference in me
And my name

Seen by sailors passing by
my sonar,
“Karleigh Girl”
My grandfather named it after me,
The boat that sails, and now i sail it for myself
My dad, like his father
Finds comfort in the blues.

He would often forget the words
To the music
Spontaneously sung, and
The chorus would become a collage
Of B.B King lyrics; a song of myself...
Karleigh….Karleigh….Karleigh Girl,
A name with no meaning,
means so much to me.

Collided with the natural
Spelling of Nicole
Dreamt by my mother long ago; how
Ever, she did fail the victory
To the daughter of a sister who wrapped
The baby in blankets, of pink
Bouquets of roses
Given to her after the first dance recital.
She learned so step by step.
Nicole.

Karleigh
Dances to the beat of her own drum
Only the drum is not a drum at all,
But rather the sound of her heartbeat
Abnormal
A 3rd sound they discovered
And when it rains, it pours
And so she pours out her soul
Like a can of paint
To color the world.

Karleigh Nicole.
The N.
I isolate  
In signature
To show that there is meaning to the middle
Of my story
Symbolic letters
To name existence

Of a past life
Where italian spirits roam
The city of Napoli
Mainella
Pronounced with an emphasis on the
“I
Am still learning”
-Michelangelo
At age 87
Whose work i marvel at
The marble
As i walk the streets of Italy
With a name tag
That Maria made for me to wear
Over my heart.

She didn’t spell it right.
But that didn’t bother me.

Nature knows her ways
The ways of the world
In the palm of her hand
In which controls our being
The upmost existence of our own
And so we look to her
For inspiration
For answers
For hope
As we fear the worst
As we pray for the best
She carries the weight of the world

i wrote u a song
where the beat is like the heart
and the rhythm rolls like the waves
so listen close,
darling,
i sing to you

it's incredible,
the moment you feel completely who you are when you're with someone else. They way they make you forget about the rest of the world. Like nothing matters except right now because you've never felt more alive. And you love it because you know now that you're alive. It make take a while to realize it, but the feeling lets you know. and when you have that feeling, be ever so grateful for that moment. It's perfection in an instant and so it will stay with you forever.

she sleeps
with nothing
to eat
to hold
to comfort
to love
to thank God for
to regret
she sleeps
alone
her family sleeps
unknown
she sleeps
she dreams

trains are often silent
i think about this,
as I keep walking from car to car
between the little doors
that serve as purpose of connection
to find an empty seat
that i do
until a girl does come along
to claim the bag in the seat there beside me
silence
in a space shared
where the scent of sour skittles
is my focus
as the mechanics of this machine
so connected
yet divided
and claims DaVinci
in this book I read
"the paradise of mathematics"
in which he found and made his own
a discovery worth the while

and so music breaks the silence
as i sit to contemplate the scenic route
all to myself
unable to avoid the mystery of thought
to my left
to stay?
i ponder where to after the destination
i do not desire
rather i sit
alongside my imagination
to picture the journey
rather
and i look out this window
to see them waving
to think if only i caught this image of paradise
as the train keeps on
i picture where it is
i am going

i'm so gone

when I feel the color green,
I can breathe with ease,
and I am transparent in a natural state
of being.

I felt an earthquake once before,
which lasted a handful of seconds
where comprehension could not dare
to overrule the obstacle of fear.
And I felt my body sink
into a darker place (where it sometimes does t to prove itself of
overthinking)
where not even the sound of a siren,
nor the sight of dying stars
could lead to an escape
one day..
like the air leaped from a lung.  
And I stared at the sun so long
that I began to doubt the myth
of going blind completely.

Until the time came for another two dozen hours  
(or so)
when a memory consumed my entire
being, to exist within
a place where I could feel the oxygen leak
moments at a time
drip-
dropping levels quickly
when I could feel my heart beating faster
than I could have convinced myself
to push myself
to run faster than I believed was physically achievable
without running out of air.

There was a time when I felt love from a distance:
A mere fixture of imagination.
And I feel that the term
"too close for comfort"
may or may not be necessary,
in the terms of my summery here,
since miles add up like words
on a page
that has been printed and copied
for one to read...

alone...

to feel-
alone
and to escape
into a room
full of green grass
and glass walls

Is where I feel the wind
as I walk from past to future.










true story

She woke up to the whisper of the blues
“Come close and listen here.” It’s time to dance
She tries to count the stars up in the sky
One two three four five six - the girl is gone
She floats on to a place where love is light
In darkness where she feels at home so late
The clocks hold her within their own two hands
Only to let her fall back down to earth
A world that grows within her heart so full
With eyes so green the trees they start to dance
The leaves so free until she a leaf herself
A cold breeze blocks her vision all but clear
Enclosed inside a box of madness tears
Into the walls that isolate her soul


Tears now do flood this place - a world so dark
These holes where light does shine for her to see
Las luces lead her to escape outside
She draws herself a door to lock behind
That  place where silence is no song to sing
Maktub, she listens to a voice within
Her heart so full it grows a Sycamore
One two three four - words written by the hand
Where fate conspires in helping to achieve
The dream of Santiago’s journey now
Like him she walks the sands of time to find
A treasure where it’s love at last she walks
Across the paper pyramids she goes
Every blessing ignored becomes a curse

we wait in apprehension
victims consternation
of a futuristic image
where love is lost
in the darkness
because the sun no longer shines
down upon the sinners
who fail to shoot the moon
and so we shoot our brothers
without consideration
a evil sense of admiration
we fall
into a world
a beautiful disease
where peace is the cure
that truly can not be found

We are tied to the ocean

As a wise man once said,
Before he sent a wise man to the moon-
sang Sinatra, in a song of course,
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars!
Instead, Spring in Boston, Massachusetts
Surrounded by the trees and ivy league
He walks. Amidst the second day of spring
TIME in ‘63
Each page, like a day in the life of a legend
Becomes wrinkled with time.
The essence of Boston: strong.
A sense of freedom?
Scents of red-cherry wine
In Martha’s Vineyard,
Does drip-like blood
Onto a blank-white sheets of paper.
Folded into tiny paper planes that fly
To the moon,
That is tied, like us, to the ocean-
Blues,
Like waves-
People watch in awe with their right hand upon the heart-in silence
From the shore of Hyannis Port.
Photographs, like memories,
Fade as time transcends.

And when we go back to the sea,
Whether it is to sail or to watch,
We are going back from whence we came.

“A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on”
-JFK

for i witnessed this death myself-and it brought my soul to life
“My painting is dead” he spoke
in all but falling to his very death
in hopes that the hour ends
painting beauty from such pain
where i see a man there up above  
as i do walk these floors beneath the ceiling
footprints soon shall walk the earth-the first time
she comes from rock-his expertise-forte
there in the sculptor's work
see what’s hidden
so study closer
only to the very genius of the painter
seemingly complete
and the story comes to life
like words on a page
whose creations escape surface
by a sculptor
a miracle complete
when the very eyes of Julius did witness
and i marvel at the moment there it time
? i wonder
what do they think of this
yet filled with existence-abundant
the room so silent-so still
holy, holy, holy, lord
the heart that fills with spirit
and so grasps the divine of depth within
the hands feel more than simply flesh
i see in clarity
the first time
of man
whose hand does touch the hand
so loudly to proclaim the word of God
with more than vibrant hues and tones
the craftsman there at work he spoke

spoke he
“I am not a painter”

Plastic

“or would you like a paper bag for all of your groceries, sir?”

entangled:

he parked his car next to the handicap spot

or was it not?

he couldn’t see since it was raining and his left windshield wiper fails to work,

should probably fix that

like his life, to be completely honest

or not to be at all.

he should have called his wife the night before she

ran the red light that put a stop to their own tomorrow. he

took it all for granted

like the light switch that he switches on and off

and on. off. on and off again he doesn’t think of what it would be like to live

in darkness.

he checks his pockets to find an old receipt of a medium iced coffee with cream

no sugar

and he thinks about all of the sugar that is still there in the cabinet above

the kitchen sink

untouched.

for only she did sweeten such bitterness

he could taste it on his tongue

still

could taste her on his tongue

still

entangled by the present

he holds the plastic bags and walks out into the future

of unintentional consequences.

I lost my birthday present yesterday.
Sterling silver,
and I wore it on my *******
since I’ve always been so fond of symmetry.
Though I hang my picture frames off center
to create a sense of balance
on white walls.

20 years.
A piece so simple, and easy to overlook.
But to feel it
And to see it there as I hold onto the
steering wheel that I use to control the very little
space that I place myself within. The present
reflects the sliver of sunlight that shines through
the sun roof, opened almost always.
When it rains I know the consequences
because I had made that mistake before.
I hadn’t checked the weather.
Now I am almost certain of the tides in 7 locations all around the world.

Lost in the sand and washed away
I walk without the comfort of the balance.
Blue stones always catch my eye
Even though my eyes are green, and I do connect with the nature of the shade.
On a series of levels,
Blues tell stories of matter
deeper than the surface.

I lost a gift so beautiful.
And instead of the ring, I’m wearing the guilt.
But this feeling must go.
And I realize this now,
That the mind will posses simple treasures
until they’re washed away
By time.

he was a fool who thought he knew it all
and he could read her like a book

and when she couldn't read at all
he taught her how  
to sound it out

the As, the Es, Is, Os

you're only as old as you feel
in the very first grade
under a birch tree
born in Castle Comb
borne by angels
tracing letters in the name of the Lord

it was a Sunday morning
and when it started to rain
he took off his red and white
flannel shirt
and covered her as they walked away
from pastures
and into the parish

when the mass began
her mother handed her the bible
and when she opened it
to proverbs 13-15
she could only make out a couple of words

she looked for him when walking down the aisle
but what she didn't know
was he snuck out to the garden
because he loved her

and he would love her until the end of time

on their final days spent together
he gave her a tattered leather book
barely bound

and when she opened it
she found yellow tulip petals pressed
into the page

where she read

"in the heart of a man of understanding wisdom quietly rests, but she must make herself known to the inner self of fools"

proverbs 14:33

a time
when i sat in a garden
observing the significance of the flower
the being of beauty
in simplistic of terms
no terms in actuality
for what was the purpose of the dictionary
i made up words on my own
that only i could hear
as i sat alone in the garden
my elementary playground
full of flowers
like me
a time of reality
for my elementary mind
shaped by the elementary lessons
my insides had twisted and turned
tangled like a vine
that cling upon the park bench
i do there sit upon
with wonder and new found questions
that i ponder as of now
a flower
resting delicate in the palm
silent
and i promise myself that i will too, become so vibrant
to paint the world a garden
with words
a time where i sat on a bench alone and all but lonesome
with the many voices there surrounding me
i named my voice an outlier among the numbers
for the picture i did paint was not that of people
but of flowers
and there i sat among them  
a mind all  but elementary

think of a place so dark
as to forget the look of light
where love is lacking
buried in the shadows
and so you're cold
as to shiver
from the fear
of a distant escape
tends escaping your very mind
loosing it
in an instant

until...

until a flower grows
the color of life
transparency no longer
hiding in the dark
a savior
for you're saved
by a beauty so natural
yet so powerful
and the earth warms the soul
once again

i walk onto the waters
for impossibility is a word
used by those in fear
of failure
and for them i rise above the clouds
and fly
for their fear of falling
is my freedom
exhilarated
by the rush
of the moment
and so i appear
in a dream
where one is standing
at the edge of tomorrow
and the only way to get there
is to conquer the waters
or the skies
however
this is one who fears
because of what they say
so i take the hand
of one
to show what it's like
to defeat reality

The world
in ruins
My heart
in pieces
The people
Fearful
The feeling
Dreadful
Lost in fear
Fear of lost
Causes
And effects
Where destruction
Leaves the world
In hope
But not I
For I heard the cries
And so I gave the world
The pieces
Of something once so pure
As I kissed it goodbye
Away I went
And on my way
I saw it come together
United
In a heartbeat
I felt it once again
For the world
Holds my heart
Forever
And away I went

she wears a satin gown to set the scene
imprinted with what appears to be roses
and as she begins to speak
she cries

tears are made of salt and water
which cures deep cuts
soothes surface level scrapes

have you ever tried to heal a scar?
the time it takes is almost never worth it
why waste the bandages on anything but blood?

have you ever run a red light?
in an instant- the fear meets the thrill
and that's where it gets dangerous
in her monologue

she talks about the color Red
and the fire that burned the bridges
built throughout her lifetime
a world plagued by make believe
cursed by empathetic magnetism

but she does believe in healthy living
wellness, grace and gratitude

she even eats an apple a day
like they told her as a kid in a candy store
only to waste tissues in her Tuesday appointments
with a woman whose name is probably just an alias
for a twisted identity that ends with a PhD.

have you ever picked roses off a bush
because you know it'll take a man too long to realize
that he should have paid for half a dozen?
(because now he pays for it)
well, now you're paying for it because the rose bush
isn't in your own backyard, but the neighbors
and the thorn catches you by surprise
drawing blood

she then numbs the pain with bottles
of red wine
(though she prefers a french white)
to her lips
stained by the madness of merlot
she cries

and we let her cry
as the audience applauds
they throw red roses upon the wooden stage
lit by her fire

her monologue concludes with velvet curtains

this cut (although not the deepest)
will heal soon.

the child sings a song to the sea whom the child loves beyond measures existent only in context for the world may never know the power from which a seaborne holds within the depths of the child's soul.

"you make it oh so easy
                                easy to love you
                                                      you put me in this ocean
                                                                ­                        ocean state of mind
where everything makes sense
                                             sense that only children know
                                                                ­                        know the sea so well
and so i am                                                               ­                                     and  
        so am i
                    i feel at home with you
                                                      you make it oh so easy
                                                            ­                          easy to live in a dream
                                                           ­                                                       dreams that
       are without an ending time                                  
                          ­                      time is but a figure
                                                                ­       figure of speech
                                                                ­                   of imagination
and so i am                                                               ­                                     and
        so am i
                   i roll the tide and take it
                                                             with me
wherever i may go
                                                             with you
                                                             ­         you are my home"

seaborne the child sings this song and if you listen closely you can hear them hum among the waves where the music plays and the children dance in praise of the world they belong.

i sleep through the sunrise often

it’s a regret i know i’ll think about
when i’m older, wiser, when i would rather be sitting than standing
on the edge of youth
and if the current carries me
to a moment where i can no longer see clearly
but still can feel
fully
i’ll stare outside the window to the world turned upside down
where skies are bluer than before, but faded
in such a way that memories feel too

i hope i learn a thing or two.. or three about
hundreds of people taking little parts of me
and my heart
to leave me holding onto the railing
so i don’t fall
when i’m weaker than i was
balancing on the edge of my youth

there's a slight difference between
jumping and falling

i still don't know which hurts more
you fall 7 times, and i was taught to stand up 8.
so on the count of nine, i'll jump

off the deep end
into the abyss
between the heartbreakers
and the heartbroken

like brown beer bottles
one in a million
swallowed by the sea
all but damaged through such treachery
turned to treasure

captured by the innocent hands
of little girls
who collect mason jars full of these broken
pieces of wave washed glass

i try to catch as many sunsets as i can
and i even chase them if they'd just slow down
just for a moment
so i can pause to think about how good it will feel to fall
without jumping

she told us of her conversations
With all the stars
And constellations
how they taught her how to dance
And so
She showed them how to sing
Soundless however
So marvelous
And with the moon they pray
For a place so perfect
And for the girl
Who dances through the streets
To the music only she can hear

She was born of delicate porcelain
so fragile, yet stone cold.
Even the optimists expected her to break hearts into halves
No woman as sentimental as she
brave, yet naive.

There would be battles between
her heart and mind. Forever.
Immersed within the meaning, her mind fought with reality's shield in hand. Forced to surrender to the heart
cutting deeper with its knife.

Misconstrued by the mirage, she trusted no one, so she trusted nothing.
Even the light at the end of the tunnel may lead unto another
darker than the first. She claims no pessimism
and she is not at all afraid of loss; loneliness; literature's lessons on how to simply conquer the fear of letting go.

No. No feeling is simply that without reasoning. what is
one without the other? Never simply two, but
Three. Like the tale of all good things to come
Aligned by the sequence of belief, of fate, of miracles all simply
Leveled by reality. Stone cold like that of The

Winter until time turns it to The Spring, morphing into The summer.
Only to leave her stranded within the mirage of the Fall. She forgets no one. She forgives them all
Made by a woman. Sentimental since the beginning. This is the story of
A woman born into a
Never ending series of falling in lust

He sails himself across the seven seas
The ocean vast and deep of the unknown
A sonar ‘cross The Indian at ease
Until The Black consumes him all alone

Never too old to dream another dream
Awoken by The Caspian. It rains.
The Adriatic; lucid like his dreams
So clear inside the eye; a hurricane

The Persian’s waves tell him to say his prayers
Where Mediterranean songs do save
A man who feels a spark; as if a flare
A letter from The Red; a path now paved

The Seven Seas as deadly as The Sins
The Wonders of the world we’re living in

and the first thing she can't remember
is the difference between sleep on the floor
and sleep through the static.
and the last thing she remembers
is the thought of music
and how different it may sound upon the surface
of the moon.

cigarette smoke mixed with daydreams
while she walks across Abbey Road
into the center of the city
that she wishes knew her all too well,
but clock towers question
her timing too.
"the loveliest faces appear out of the
blue."
she often ponders the pendulum
and the consequence of her freedom
movement from place to place
person to person.
out of the blue.

at exactly meantime,
she walks alone
until she enters the telephone booth
that takes her into
a blue world:
unlike any other landscape
painted by Van Gogh himself.

It's the final Tuesday and the window opens on its own.
I'd stay for seven Tuesdays more, but alas
I'll let it be.

the summer wind
whispered
her name
as if to set her free
one with the oceanic hymns
a scenic route to paradise
and so she went
away with
the summer wind

if snow fell into june,
it would alter summer's state
of mind.

if salt turned to sugar,
and the oceans turned to ice,
the tides would cease-
motionless.
And nothing should move
below surface level.

if secrets were for everyone
to hear,
no one silent would be safe
from sound surrounding...
like a shot in the dark.
And no, you should never shoot the messenger,

but if wrongs turned right,
she surely shoots the messenger.
And the wars would break the ice
into the heat of the core

which would send us all into space.

And if it snowed in space
and gravity kept us all apart,
(similar to secrets)
we would float
until we fall to sleep.

if money made sense,
and i could spend it
wisely...
i think i'd buy a star myself.
And I think we'd watch it burn
from the edge of the moon.

once upon a time...

fifty stars
did shine so luminous
with enlightenment
and red signaled the stop
to violence and oppression
blue waters led to a land
of the free
where white pages
fill with colors to shape our history

but those pages
are being burned
and many the stars
now invisible
complete darkness swallows society's entire existence
no longer indivisible
no longer standing

the question:
what is liberty and justice for all
without liberty and justice for America?

don't let this be
The End.

for The United.

In a world full of rocks
there's a roll full of film
filled with photographs-
squares- like the infamous cube
To remind her that even colors
get oddly mixed up sometimes.

Blue walls
where memories rest.
And she sees,
in the eyes of John Lennon,
Circles.
And she imagines, when she listens to
The Question...
what would it feel like
to walk through a kaleidoscope?

The pond.
It knows her soul
desire to fall in love with love itself.
Her energy is art,
but there is no use for picture frames
to restrict the flow of such creation
through solely just a window with purpose
to dream, to wonder-wander
time to time.

She walks
from one star to the next-
out of her mind,
Making music of her own.
And I look up from the surface
to see her presence on that lucky rock-
Planting flowers on the moon.

she told me not to cry during the night
so i'll wait 'til tomorrow
when the sun will shine
and i resist loneliness
since the sun, i know, will shine
to warm my soul
with euphoria
and so i do
think to myself
nostalgic
of this life
where love does flourish
in a place
and there i do exist
and i am happy
and i am so in love with him
the hymns are haunting
though i do play them
over and over
i listen
like a broken record
for a broken heart

such wonder
s and such moment
s that still fill my heart
so heavy with emotion
so natural like the sunlight
that does shine for me-i think
until-i question
yet again..
what happens if it does not
rise again
what happens when it rains
and so i start to cry
and my whole world does fall
like rain
i look around
as time stands still
amidst a puzzle of a place
i stand alone
under the same sun
as the ones who came before me
and cursed me with this soul
i run
to the waves
take me to loveland
i scream
into the wind
no one else can seem to hear me
has no one ever?
while a voice is sometimes louder
in the mind
rather than within the world
where volumes drown the lyrics
to the most beautiful songs
of myself

looking directly into the sun
i see nothing
feel
nothing
and i cry no more

And Plato speaks so loud as to grasp the attention of the crowded room and begins to call attention to the meaning of the word,

love
so simple
the spelling of four letters
that flow so smoothly off the lips
soon to be cursed with the touch
the kiss
that numbs the being
of the half
that i am
and i question who it is i am when i am
with you
the pursuit of wholeness
Plato speaks to me
"he whom loves touches not walks in darkness"
for i think i see the light there in the eye
of you
the beholder
and so deep within i look
to see fire
only to watch trees burning all around me
as nature falls
i fall more in love with you
...so i think that i am...
that i can clearly see
a tree still stands there amidst the garden
where two lovers sit and speak of fascinations
machinations of the creature there does taint the taste..the lust..
for eros whispers in my ear to trust the words that Plato speaks to me
cheers to the lovers!
but what about the lost?
lost in love
for the subconscious
does not speak so loudly
to proclaim
the deepened truths
of love
what is
the meaning? The philosopher's tongue
a language
that makes us lose our very minds
because one half of the brain can not function without the other
like the heart does beat..one sound..and the other
in perfect harmony
together in symphony
the sound
where one can not be complete without the other
for love without the other is simply more than just a verb

and Plato raises his glass
for a toast..to
“Love
is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature."